By the second period, my legs burned—but the pain felt strangely muted, dulled around the edges. The cold had deepened, settling into my joints, wrapping tight around me like an invisible brace.
That my dragon needed to protect me should have scared me more than it did.
Seattle let loose a hard shot into my pads. The rebound spun out to open ice, and as I lunged to smother it, a player crashed into me—shoulder into my arm, knee into my leg—my skate caught, halting me mid-movement. My knee twisted; pain flared white-hot for a heartbeat, then vanished. Not gone, contained. The cold surged, locking my joint with ruthless precision, and I collapsed forward, instinctively slapping my glove over the puck.
The whistle blew. I stayed down. Sound receded into a muffled murmur, as if I listened through thick ice. My breathing slowed without effort while the cold crept into my core, heavy and deliberate. My dragon coiled tight inside me:preserve.
I tried to rise, but my knee didn’t scream—it simply wouldn’t respond. That terrified me. Skates scraped closer; someone called my name. “Rees? You with us?” “I’m fine,” I lied, thewords thick on my tongue. “Don’t move. Where does it hurt?” “My right knee.” Even through the pads, I felt the magic binding my flesh and bone. At the moment of injury, my dragon had intervened, sealing the damage and buying time.
With help, I shuffled upright. My leg felt distant, no longer mine, and I couldn't skate on it. The crowd applauded my lifted glove; I smiled for them, though unease curled inside me like frostbite. Led off the ice, the arena’s roar fell away, replaced by harsh hallway lights and the sting of disinfectant. The cold pressed harder now, slowing thought, making my fingers tremble. I knew what my dragon was doing, and I knew how it would look to anyone else. By the dressing-room door, medical staff rushed forward, eyes dropping to my pale skin, my shaking fingers—alarm in their gazes.
Cinder
By the time they got him through the tunnel, I was already moving. I didn’t think about names or jerseys or the fact that I’d watched in awe from the edge of the ice as this man played more times than I could count. I didn’t think about the crowd still roaring somewhere behind us or the scoreboard ticking onward without him.
I just thought about an injured player and doing my job. “Clear a path,” I said, voice steady, hands already snapping gloves on. “Bench area—now.”
They listened.
That wasn’t ego. That was training. People heard calm and assumed competence, and right now, competence mattered more than anything else.
He was heavier than he looked when they settled him onto the bench, all muscle and gear and contained tension. He moved stiffly, favoring his right leg, but he didn’t complain. Not once. That alone put him on my radar. “Helmet off,” I said, already reaching.
He tilted his head forward without argument, letting me lift it free. His hair was damp with sweat, curling slightly at the temples, and when I brushed my fingers against his skin, I paused. Cold. Not rink-cold. Not sweat-cooling-on-skin cold.
Cold wrong.
“Can you hear me?” I asked.
“Yes,” he answered immediately. His voice was calm. Too calm.
“Any dizziness? Blurred vision?”
“No.”
“Pain?”
He hesitated. Just a fraction. “I'm fine. Just banged my knee.” Why did I think he was lying? But hockey players always said they were fine when they weren't, so maybe his "fine" meant he was in agony.
I nodded and moved closer, crouching so I was level with him. His breath fogged faintly in the air between us, even here, even surrounded by warm bodies and movement. I took his wrist automatically. His pulse was slower than I liked but strong and steady.
My stomach tightened, but my face didn’t change. “Stay with me,” I said, not because he was fading, but because I wanted his attention anchored on me. “I’m going to check your vitals.”
“I'm fine, Doc,” he murmured.
I glanced up sharply. He was watching me. Not unfocused. Not glassy. Watching. And—this was absurd, given the circumstances—smiling. Not broad. Not cocky. Just… ruefully. Like my hands on him were something he accepted. I ignored that. I ignored the doc comment as well because I'd spent my first month telling everyone I wasn't a doctor, but they still called me one. Or tried to. I slipped the thermometer from my pocket and pressed it gently against his temple.
“Hold still.”
The seconds ticked by. Around us, the game moved on—shouts, skates, the thud of bodies—but inside my head, everything narrowed to the small device in my hand. It beeped. I looked. Then I looked again.
No.
I pulled it back and rechecked, slower this time, making sure I hadn’t misread. The number didn’t change. My chest went tight. “That can’t be right,” I said quietly.
“What?” he asked, his voice sounding nervous.
I didn’t answer. I checked his other wrist, then his neck. His skin was cold everywhere now, not just the extremities. Pale, too—color leeched away in a way adrenaline shouldn’t allow.